


Water Like A Stone

by treefrogie84



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 5 Times, Dean Winchester's Birthday, Episode Coda 14x10, Gen, Heavy Angst, John Winchester's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-22
Updated: 2019-01-22
Packaged: 2019-10-14 15:18:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17510993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84
Summary: Happy birthday, Dean Winchester.His birthday's have rarely been happy. Most of the time, he'd rather ignore it completely.





	Water Like A Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Thayer](https://www.pillowfort.io/Thayer) for help writing small children and [Hermit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hermit9/pseuds/Hermit9) for reading over this.

January 24, 1984 (5 years old)

Dean pokes his head over the rail on the staircase when he hears someone in the kitchen. He’d wished really hard last night and it’s his birthday and he’s been trying really hard to be good for Daddy-- that’s what all the ladies said he needed to do, be good for his dad. Mama always said that if he was good, he’d get a present. Maybe she would be his present?

He reaches up and holds the rail on his way down the stairs. He’s not supposed to leave Sammy, but Daddy also said they’re safe here. Maybe just this once…

Daddy’s asleep in Mr. Bobby’s chair, bottles surrounding it. Dean tiptoes past, trying to get to the kitchen without Daddy waking up. He’s always super grumpy when there’s that many bottles.

The radio is playing Mama’s song! She’s back!

Dean rushes into the kitchen, sliding a bit in his socks, but he keeps his balance, just like Daddy taught him.

“Hey there, squirt!” Mr. Bobby turns around, a spatula in one hand. “I was wondering when you’d wake up.”

Dean stares at him for a long time, hope crashing around him. He can feel his lip start to wobble and he hiccups a sob.

Mr. Bobby does something on the stove before crouching down so he can face Dean. “Were you looking for your mom?”

Dean nods. He can’t stop the tears anymore and crumples to the floor, sobbing. Mr. Bobby slides over next to him, pulling him into a hug. “I know kid, I know. It’s bullshit, but she’s dead. Ain’t no wishing that’s gonna bring her back.”

Dean nods again, because he’s not sure how else to respond. They sit there for a long time, Bobby’s arms wrapped around him while they lean against the wall.

“Feel like those pancakes now?” Bobby asks.

Dean shrugs, wiping his nose on his sleeve and pointing upstairs. He needs to go get Sammy before Daddy wakes up. As long as Sammy’s safe, everything will be okay.

* * *

 

January 23, 1992 (13 years old)

Sam glares across the small kitchen table, his book open in front of him. “It’s your birthday tomorrow, shouldn’t you have cake or cupcakes or something?”

Dean keeps his back to Sam, carefully reaching up to poke his jaw, hissing at the bolt of pain that shoots through his entire head. He’s pretty sure stupid Jake didn’t actually break it yesterday, but he can’t be sure. Not without x-rays, and this isn’t nearly important enough for that. “No oven,” he mumbles.

“There’s a toaster oven,” Sam points out. “You can use that.”

Dean shrugs, glancing at the calendar he’d tacked to the wall. If he’s careful, if they don’t run into any more problems, there’s enough money to pay for the room for another week when the owner comes around on Monday. Four days. They can make it four days. There’s peanut butter, and bread, and it won’t be the first time they’ve had water with their cereal. Anyway, Dad should be back next week too.

“Dean, come on. You know you’re supposed to take something in. It’s your birthday,” Sam insists, like Dean hadn’t heard him the first three times they’d had this discussion. Or when they’d had it last May for Sam’s birthday.

“Not in junior high,” Dean snaps, wincing when he opens his jaw too far. “Leave it, Sam.”

Sam flips his book shut behind him, marching over to the two burner stove where Dean has pasta boiling. “I don’t want Mac & Cheese for dinner.”

“Tough shit.” Dean closes his eyes, waiting for Sam to notice the bruise. “This is what we have.”

“What happened to your face?”

“Jake Abernathy.”

“I thought--” Sam pauses. “Are you in trouble?”

Yes. “Nah, he just got a lucky punch in.” And a few kicks. And Dean’s wallet, including the food money. “I’m good, little brother. No worries.”

Jake happens again the next morning on his way to the junior high from the elementary school. Dean’s pretty sure he’s got a cracked rib after, but the principal blames the fight on him anyway.

* * *

 

January 24, 2003 (24 years old)

He knows that San Francisco has seasons, but somehow, it doesn’t feel right that he’s walking around in jeans and a flannel in late January. Not that it matters-- he’s only here for tonight, to meet up with Sammy before he heads back east to work a job with Dad.

Sammy, who said he’d meet him at this crappy diner hours ago. Sammy, who’s decided he’s better than Dean because he’s going to college. Sammy, who got out, and as much as Dean resents it, he’s so so proud of him too.

Dean can’t quit looking up at the door every time the bell rings, hoping that it’s Sam. The waitress has come by five times to warm up his coffee, to ask if he’s ready to order.

“I don’t think she’s coming, hon,” the waitress stops by again, refills his coffee again. She’s barely older than he is, way too young to be trying to mother him. “You sure I can’t get you something?”

“Yeah.” He doesn’t have the energy to tell her he’s supposed to be meeting with his estranged brother and, well, he’s still been stood up. Sam said he’d meet him here hours ago and it’s already pushing midnight. Dean glances at his watch and the half-full diner. “A burger, I guess. Fries.”

“Friday night. We won’t be busy until the bar crowd lets out, don’t you worry.” She slides a hand along his shoulder, smiling down at him. “I’ll have that burger out for you in just a moment.”

Dean nods, already looking out the window again. The diner itself is nothing special, probably kept in business by the university bar crowd. There’s still a bedraggled Christmas tree propped up in the corner, the ornaments worn and dusty.

He pushes the tree from his mind-- alone and pointless-- and tries to convince himself to grab his food and hit up a bar. No reason to spend tonight alone, it is his birthday, and there are a lot of California blondes around. It doesn’t work though.

Sam’s not coming, probably got distracted by his girlfriend or a party or something. Dean tries not to let it get to him. It's cool, awesome even, that Sam's got a life of his own, that he's getting the college experience he wanted. It’s just a really lonely year, with Sam gone and Dad randomly taking solo hunts and…

The waitress-- Theresa-- slides his burger in front of him along with a bottle of ketchup. And a slip of paper with ten digits on it. “I’m off at one, if you wanted to make up for your lost date.”

Grinning up at her, Dean pushes the hurt and everything else to the side. This, he can do. “Sounds great. I’ll hang out.”

* * *

 

January 24, 2008 (29 years old)

Someone new slides onto the stool next to him, silently sizing him up. “Let me buy you a drink?”

This one sounds pretty, but his vision is already blurred-- mixing downers was probably a bad idea, no matter how badly he wants dreamless sleep-- and he just can’t be bothered tonight.

“I’m good,” he slurs, twisting around to face her. Dark hair, curves to die for, some accent he can’t place right now. He waves a hand towards the bartender. “Won’t serve me no more anyway.”

“Oh, honey.”

“Fuck off.” Dean jerks his hand away from hers, slams back the last of his beer.

It’s the last thing he remembers that night.

* * *

 

January 24, 2019 (40 years old)

He wakes up, unable to tell the difference between the migraine pounding at his temples and Michael pounding at the fridge door. Hell, he’s not even sure if the migraine isn’t Michael. Isn’t an aneurysm beating away at some vital vein before it splits open and floods his brain with blood, leaving him a drooling vegetable for thirty seconds-- until Michael is set free and uses him to burn everything to ash.

He doesn’t spend time with the other hunters anymore. Or Jack. Or Mom and Bobby. Too great of a chance of them getting hurt. He wouldn’t spend time with Sam or Cas either, but they ignore him when he orders them away. Insist on bringing him food that he doesn’t eat, books that he doesn’t read.

He doesn’t deserve it. Doesn’t deserve them. Not after saying yes, not after… everything.

The mirror over his sink mocks him, keeps showing him only his own face, when he knows there’s at least two.

(Or is it three? He’s certain that the demon is really gone… but they were certain Michael was gone too.)

“Dean,” Cas says, tired, like he’s been calling his name for ages. “There’s nothing there. Michael is trapped. You can relax.” He pulls Dean away from the mirror, away from the bed, sets him down on the tiny loveseat in the corner. “You can’t keep doing this.”

He glances up for a split second before closing his eyes. What he doesn’t see, Michael can’t see, can’t use to destroy, can’t--

“Look at me. _Please_.”

The pounding redoubles and Dean slides from the couch with a whine, curling up next to Cas’s legs, burying his face into Cas’s calf to block the light even further.

“Your mom brought pie,” Cas says conversationally, slowly petting one hand through Dean’s hair. It helps, a bit. “She says she made it, using one of Bobby’s wife’s recipes. Everyone has their doubts, but no one wants to cut into it without you.” He keeps talking, but Dean loses the thread of it, trying to keep Michael trapped, away.

It takes all his concentration just to do that one thing. He’s not strong like Cas, like Sammy, can’t split his attention to make sure the evil thing is locked away and still be able to live an almost normal life.

He’s never been that strong.


End file.
